


The Dark Poldark

by BlackHogwartsWrites (vashtishacklebolt)



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Genderbending, Period-Typical Racism, Racebending, Romance, extremely mild but period-typical racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vashtishacklebolt/pseuds/BlackHogwartsWrites
Summary: A genderbent and racebent AU in which Rosamund (Ross) Poldark, the biracial cousin of the well-off Poldarks of Trenwith, comes back to Nampara from America-- betrayed, bereft, and determined to survive.
Relationships: Demelza Carne/Ross Poldark, Elizabeth Chynoweth/Francis Poldark, Elizabeth Chynoweth/Ross Poldark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	The Dark Poldark

The wind swept straight down Bodmin moor, smelling of the sea, and of gorse and heather. Rosamund breathed in deep. It was the same as it ever was; it had been three years since she’d last breathed it. The sky above was the same, dark gray billowing cloud, and the sea was unchanged, still strange, still moody. It had borne her a long way, from Nampara to Boston and back, and still everything was the same. Everything, it seemed, but her. 

The carriage she’d just climbed down from lumbered off as the driver cracked his whip. Rosamund picked up her bag and stepped out of the road and into the brush of the moor, and made her way toward Trenwith.

She was sure her father would like to see her soon, but the sun still shone, and it had been so long since she’d seen her Elliot. Tall, dark-haired, proud Elliot, handsome Elliot. Her father would surely forgive her if she made a slight detour to see him. 

At least, she hoped he’d be there. He had been so often at the house three years ago, whenever she visited her cousin Fanny. Even as she and Fanny were meant to be conversing by the fire, reading collections of sermons and parables, playing the pianoforte, taking a turn in the garden, Elliot was never far away, exchanging a stolen glance across the table, a touch of the hand in the corridor, a near-kiss amongst the wildflowers far from prying eyes, whispered promises among the dunes at Hendrawna. As Rosamund walked through those very same wildflowers, she fingered the chain of the necklace that she kept tucked into her bodice from which hung a miniature bearing his likeness, set in copper mined from under the very ground on which she stood.

Her breath caught in her throat as the gabled roofs of Trenwith became visible above the trees. Yes, a slight detour to Trenwith to call on family on her return from America, as much as it set the butterflies in her stomach to fluttering, could not be a mistake. She would say hello to her uncle and great aunt, her cousins Fanny and Virgil, and if she was lucky, Elliot would be present. She could not help but hope with every vibrating nerve in her being that his feelings had not changed. Hers certainly had not.

Light shone in the tall mullioned windows. She did not even bother knocking. They were neighbors after all, and family, and the looks on their faces would be worth the slight lapse in decorum. The sound of utensils on china, and of glass clinking and voices speaking told her they were at supper. She grinned to herself, her heart in her throat as she threw wide the door--

There was a sudden hush as she entered the room. Her uncle Charles sat at the head of the table, as portly as ever in a bright waistcoat, and beside him Rosamund’s elderly great-aunt Agatha. Across from her sat Fanny, her fair hair curled into lagging ringlets, her blue eyes watery, though bright. She was no longer the stringy youth Rosamund remembered, for she’d become a woman. Beside Agatha sat cousin Virgil, his dark hair swept back, and his features arranged in an awkward, solemn demeanor. And across from him, sitting beside his mother, and exuding more light than the candelabra on the table, was Elliot Chynoweth. 

“Surprised to see me?” Rosamund asked cheekily in the dead silence before shocked looks became gasps of delight, slack jaws became laughter, and the sound of chairs scraping filled the room as Fanny, Virgil, and Uncle Charles stood and made their way to Rosamund, who flicked her cloak to the side. She kissed their faces genially, though she noted still the gazes that flicked askance over her countenance. They always did. For everyone felt, ever since she’d been a little girl, that she did not truly belong to the family, not in the same way Fanny or Virgil did. She simply did not fit in. She did not look the part of the Poldark and never would. Well, Rosamund couldn’t help that. So she stood up straight and cleared her throat.

“Is this a party for me, celebrating my return?” she joked, and the laughter turned ever so slightly in their mouths, like butter souring in the sun. Elliot stood, suddenly, his mouth open as if to say something. Rosamund felt her whole body turn in his direction.

“Elliot,” said Mrs. Chynoweth. “Would you be a dear and fetch my fan, it’s upstairs.”

“Mother, I--” Elliot began. Mrs. Chynoweth cut him off.

“Now, Elliot, dear.”

Elliot stepped away from the table and, with a glance at Rosamund, walked through the drawing room doors and climbed the stairs. Uncle Charles motioned to the table.

“Come, Rosamund, sit. You must join us in our celebration. Virgil, bring Rosamund a chair, would you.”

“Certainly,” said Virgil. As he passed Rosamund on his way to the drawing room, he gave her a genuine smile. “Glad you’re back,” he said. Rosamund grinned his way. 

She looked around at the fine clothing, Fanny’s new dress of blue silk, the champagne on the table, fresh beeswax tapers, and the arrangement of vivid spring flowers.

“What is it you are celebrating, again,” she asked, bemused, as Virgil returned with a chair that he placed at the table. She took a seat as Mrs. Chynoweth looked up brightly at Rosamund.

“Why, we’re celebrating Fanny’s betrothal--”

Rosamund beamed at Fanny, who looked sheepishly down into her flute of champagne.

“--to Elliot. They’ll be married in a fortnight’s time. After all, it is only natural such ancient and distinguished families should be joined...”

Rosamund felt the breath leave her lungs. Mrs. Chynoweth sounded very far away, muffled by the sound of Rosamund’s own beating heart, so perhaps she’d been mistaken. It was only when she’d turned around to see Elliot on the bottom stair, clutching his mother’s fan apologetically, his face flushed and his red lips agape in a look of suppressed horror, that Rosamund realized she’d heard quite correctly. She took a deep, steadying breath as her senses returned to her. She cleared her throat as her uncle, blissfully ignorant of the torrid exchange of embarrassed looks that crossed his dining room, poured her a glass of champagne. Rosamund took it automatically.

She watched its bubbles rise for a moment before she let her face split into a gaudy smile.

“To the happy couple,” she said. She felt a slightly sadistic pleasure in toasting Fanny and Elliot as they looked on in utter mortification. Rosamund tipped the glass to her lips and drained it in a few gulps. Coarse, she knew, but her actions did not feel her own. The champagne went straight to her head, mercifully dulling the sharpness of her own heartbreak.

“Well, I mustn’t keep you from your festivities,” she said flatly, standing to adjust her cloak. “I must go home to greet my father.”

She was sure of it now, the look that went round the table at the sound of her words was too uncomfortable to ignore. Elliot sat down slowly. The only person who didn’t look like they’d seen a ghost was Mrs. Chynoweth. Rather, she smiled mischievously.

“You haven’t heard?” she said in a voice as light as fresh milk. 

“Mother--” Elliot chastened quietly. 

“Why, we thought you must have received word in Boston when Mr. Poldark died last year.”

Rosamund felt the air leave her body once more. Her head swam. She looked down at the floor-- still it was under her feet, so the world had not ended. She tried to reconcile this fact with how she felt. 

“My father is dead,” she said quietly, trying the words in her mouth. They did not seem real.

“Rosamund,” said Virgil quietly, laying a gentle hand on her arm before she pulled away.

Rosamund straightened her posture in an attempt at composure. She made a decision quickly. “I must borrow your horse, uncle,” she said quickly to Uncle Charles. He nodded, his jowls quivering, his brow furrowed. 

“But you must stay,” he spluttered in a half-hearted attempt at hospitality. Rosamund glanced around at the party she’d ruined, the faces of every guest aghast at the intrusion. She thought she ought to be used to it by now.

“Good night,” she said, and she turned on her heel and walked quickly out to the front path where a servant was stepping forward with a black mare. _How fitting_ , she thought bitterly. 

She did not look back once as she mounted the saddle and set off at a full gallop. As she quickly put distance between her and Trenwith, between her and Elliot, she felt she could finally let the tears fly freely in the wind that came off the sea and rushed down the moor. She was riding away from everything, and riding directly toward nothing, but she knew not what else to do. Nothing was all she had.

* * *

Rosamund gazed around in the waning light. The sun was setting on Nampara farm, if you could call it a farm. A broken plow lay in the earth, the soil was half-tilled, and overrun by weeds. Buckets, barrels, pails lay rotting, iron spades lay rusting. Gates and fences long since broken, stone walls crumbling. Stray chickens pecked in the yard. A mangy, flea-ridden dog wandered between the out-buildings. 

Inside the house, her skirts picked up the dust and hay that covered the floors. Bottles and candle-stubs were strewn over the table. A pig lay asleep in the kitchen where it was surrounded by half-eaten overripe turnips and apple cores. A low rumbling sound caught her ear, and she moved towards the master bedroom. The floorboards creaked underfoot. The shadows had nearly overtaken the house as night came on. But she could see their sleeping forms clearly.

Jud and Prudie Paynter, her father’s former servants, were asleep, their snores shuddering loose wall-panels, their dirt-caked feet poking comically out from under the sheets. Rosamund looked around the room. Shifts and knickers were draped over the furniture, upholstery was ripped, goose feathers were shed onto the dusty floor. More bottles littered the dresser. One was still half-filled with a sour-smelling liquid. Her stomach filling with a quick-boiling rage, Rosamund grabbed it and flung its contents onto Jud and Prudie’s sleeping forms, jolting them loudly awake as they cried out.

“This is what I come back to! This is what my father has left me?! A pair of layabouts, trashing my father’s estate?!”

Rosamund tossed the bottle onto the floor.

“Us didn’t know ‘ee had returned, mistress!” squealed Prudie. Jud sat up grumbling. Their faces were red with drink. All the surprises, the ill-gotten news, and honestly, the _grief_ , had finally found its outlet.

“Get up!” cried Rosamund. “My father did not die so that you could make this mockery of his lifetime of hard work! My mother did not die giving birth to me so that you would sully her memory this way!”

“Judas,” Jud muttered, mumbling a word that started with the letter "n." Rosamund turned on her heel.

“What did you say,” Rosamund asked coldly. She felt her hand itch with the urge to knock Jud over. In his half-drunken state it would be easy.

“Naught, mistress, naught,” he grumbled.

“I have half a mind to cast you both out on the road this very night!” said Rosamund, lighting the stub of a candle with a spare match. “If I didn’t have need of you. But I do. Together we’ll clean up this house so we all may have somewhere to sleep tonight. And tomorrow we will go to market to get what we need for the swaling, the ploughing, and the planting.”

As Rosamund stormed out of the room, she caught sight of her reflection in a spotty mirror, lit by the stub of her candle. Against her pale dress, her brown skin shone smooth. She wondered if this might have been a sight her father would have been accustomed to twenty years ago, a brown-skinned woman in the narrow corridors of his modest house on his modest farm, the younger Poldark brother made lesser by his unsuitable marriage to Rosamund’s mother, a free Black woman. She had often wondered if he had ever resented her for it. Being the younger brother, his portion of the Poldark estate was already smaller than that of his brother, her uncle Charles. His land was less desirable, his luxuries fewer. His lot was no doubt made more difficult by choosing a wife that set him apart from the society of Bodmin and Sawle, a choice that lowered his standing, though it lifted his spirits and his heart. Rosamund smoothed down her dress. So many already believed that she was the evidence that his choice had been the wrong one, that his life might have been better, that he might even have lived longer, if he hadn’t married Rosamund’s mother, hadn’t had a girl, hadn’t had Rosamund, and the error was all the more glaring in comparison to his brother Charles, who could walk through town with his delicate, graceful, pale daughter Fanny. It seemed that Elliot had thus made the only sensible choice, then, of the two cousins. But if you asked Rosamund, he’d chosen the wrong Poldark.

* * *

To forget, Rosamund threw herself into the work of Nampara. Over the next few days, together with Jud and Prudie, they swept the house, beat the mattresses, and stuffed them full of ladies’ bed straw and other sweet grasses. They shook the rugs and curtains, brushed the tapestries, and dusted every surface. 

They sent Jud up the chimney with a great holly bush tied to a piece of rope to clear it out. Prudie aired the woolen blankets. Rosamund, doing work she hadn’t even thought of since she’d left her father’s house three years before, used a rusted spade to dig up the bramble and bracken roots in the field, pushing them into piles to be burned. Standing straight after hours bent over at the waist in labor, Rosamund wished fervently that she had an extra pair of hands to make the work lighter.

As Prudie watched over the smoking pyres in the fields, and Jud set about mending the roof, Rosamund took out her uncle Charles’s horse.

On her way to market, she passed the houses of her tenants. Her heart plummeted to see their roofs in disrepair, their stone boundaries falling down, and their animals lowing in makeshift shelters. She fingered the gold watch in her pocket that had belonged to her father. With it she knew she could purchase items to improve her own situation, but she was going to need a longer term solution in order to help her tenants. She waved hello to them as she passed them in road, and continued on her way to town.

The market proved fruitful. Mr. Pascoe, her family's longtime banker, refused to make open a line of credit, considering her father’s debts and mortgages. But her father's gold watch fetched an amount that covered the price of a new blade for the plough, as well as an ox, and a variety of seed. She thought her day was done when her path through the market was impeded by a crowd.

Two men were fighting in the street. Other men called out as the sound of fist bruised flesh. Their dirty shirts ripped at the seams, sweat beading off locks of unwashed hair. Rosamund gasped and struggled through the chaos as she recognized one of the fighters-- one of her tenants, Adam.

She reached out and grabbed the other man by the scruff of his neck-- the smaller of the two, though not by much and much taller still than her. He fought like an animal trained to fight. He had that same look in his eye of fear and blind rage born of helplessness. Of choicelessness. He jerked away from Rosamund’s grasp.

"You'll stop now before you're both arrested for public brawling," she hissed as warning.

"Sorry, Mistress," Adam gasped, catching his breath. "But this man insulted my ailing grandfather."

"Go home, Adam. I'm sure he'd not like to hear that you would defend his honor and risk your welfare by breaking the law."

She turned to the other man.

"And you? What excuse do you have?"

The man suddenly turned roughly. "I've no reason to answer to 'ee."

"You fight with my tenant, you answer me, boy. Who do you belong to?" Rosamund shifted so that she was speaking directly into his face, though he turned it away again and again.

"That's Tim Carne's boy," said Adam. "From Illuggan. And he'll get a hiding, too, once he's found to have run off."

"Is this true?" Demanded Rosamund, her hands coming to rest on her hips.

"Aye," he shot back rudely.

Rosamund shook her head. "Come with me,” she said.

"And you," she said, turning to Adam. "Back to your cottage with you, if you've finished your business in town, or I'll send your brothers after you."

She brought the boy to her horse, and directed him to mount.

"I'll give you a ride to Illuggan," she said, climbing up in front of him on the pommel. She turned to look at him. Now that he had calmed down, she could see that his eyes were the color of the sea on a clear day. A single lock of flame red hair had escaped his cap.

"And your name," she said.

"Day Carne," he grunted. 

Rosamund flicked the reins and dug her heel into her horse's flank. 

As they passed the bank, Georgiana Warleggan exited, shutting the door behind her, her golden blonde curls piled high on her head and bouncing along the ruffles of her brightly-colored bodice. 

"Picking up stray dogs now, Roz?” called Georgiana. “One would hardly believe you were a lady."

"Takes one to know one, Georgiana," Rosamund answered without even turning her head. She spurred her horse on.

They travelled at a jaunty pace along the road out of town. In the middle of the heath, halfway to Nampara, where the road split in the direction of Sawle, Bodmin, and Illugan, Day jumped down. He began to take the road to Illugan, his feet dragging. He looked dejected enough at the prospect of returning home to his father and the hiding that awaited him. Rosamund knew that she shouldn’t, it wasn’t proper, that people would talk, but she couldn’t abide cruelty. Not when she could personally put a stop to it.

“Have you eaten?” Rosamund called. Day stopped in his tracks.

“Nay, ma'am,” he answered.

“And have you work?”

“Nay, ma’am.”

“Would you like to work?” Rosamund asked. The horse beneath her shuffled impatiently.

“Aye, ma'am, I would.”

“I'm in need of a man.” Rosamund reddened in spite of herself. She cleared her throat. “A farmhand that is. A laborer on my estate, would that interest you?”

Day grunted, turning in the road.

* * *

At home, Jud and Prudie grumbled.

"He's filthy,” Prudie complained. “And there's no vittles for 'im. T'ain’t right, t'ain’t fit, t’ain't proper."

"Shut it, Prudie," snapped Rosamund. Turning to Day, she handed him a clean shirt and breeches that had once belonged to her father.

"You'll clean up. You'll eat something. And we'll get straight to work."

Turning from Day, a letter on the kitchen table caught Rosamund's eye.

"What's this, Prudie," she called out, picking up the letter, turning it over.

"Yer uncle Charles delivered it hisself, not a quarter hour past, ma'am."

Rosamund broke the wax seal, unfolded the letter, and out fell a hundred pounds.

Quickly, Rosamund's mind cycled through the dozen uses for such a fortune as her stomach flipped over with unexpected joy. She could feed a hundred tenants several times over, mend all their roofs, buy an acre from the next door neighbor, pigs, chickens, calves. She could hire a dozen hands or invest in real estate in town. She almost dared to think that she might have a look at her father's old mine, closed since before he had passed. Surely there might still be copper deep beneath the grass. With a hundred pounds she could have it up and running in weeks, and all her tenants might have steady jobs with good wages…

But she realized then, with a sinking feeling, what this money was truly for.

Ignoring the glances from Jud and Prudie, and Day’s long, curious gaze, Rosamund mounted her horse and sped it along the cliffside to Trenwith. Entering the grand old house, with its tall mullioned windows, its elegant gray stone facade and carved arches, she expected to find her uncle Charles, or Aunt Agatha. Instead, she found--

"Elliot," Rosamund breathed.

He stood, dressed in a dark waistcoat and jacket, his dark hair swept back from his face and just brushing his collar. His noble nose reddened at the sight of her, his dark eyes widened. Rosamund forgot for a moment why she had come.

Elliot recovered, and smiled. "Did you enjoy market day, Miss Poldark?"

 _Miss Poldark_ . How queer to hear him address her so formally, instead of a feverishly whispered _Rosamund_ instead. She suddenly remembered her reason for coming.

"Is my uncle in," Rosamund said in a rush. 

Taken aback, Elliot invited her to sit in the drawing room. He went to stand by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantle. Rosamund watched him out of the corner of her eye as she took a seat. She did so love the way he held himself in the relaxed yet powerful manner he had. As if he were a prince, though Rosamund suspected he didn't know how beautiful he was. How she caught her breath in his presence.

"I hear you took on a new farmhand."

Rosamund nodded without looking at him. "Day Carne, from Illuggan."

"You should send him home. People will judge," Elliot said, glancing away.

"Will you?" Rosamund looked at him directly now, seeing his discomfort. She sighed. "I should go--"

"It’s not that," said Elliot suddenly. Rosamund raised her hands in exasperation.

“Then what?” she asked.

Elliot straightened up and looked directly at Rosamund, his face crumpling with feeling. "It hurts to think how you must hate me," he said. Rosamund sighed and softened. She stepped closer to Elliot.

"You of all people should know," she said quietly, searching his face with her eyes. "From the moment I first saw you, no one else existed. While I was away all I could think about was coming back to you. Do you really believe my heart so inconstant? That day I left--" She reached up and laid a gentle hand to Elliot's suffering cheek.

“Was there really nothing between us? Is there really nothing between us now?”

Elliot raised his hand and traced a finger along Rosamund’s brown cheek. 

“I thought I’d never see you again, Roz,” Elliot choked. Rosamund caught her breath at the sound of her name issuing from his lips with such emotion. “And now you come to me, asking me questions you know I cannot answer.”

Rosamund shut her eyes tight, just as she felt hot tears spring to her lashes. She felt her gut as if it were suddenly and violently carved away from the rest of her body.

“I am to be married in seven days’ time. To Fanny,” said Elliot, lowering his hand and becoming suddenly stiff. Rosamund even felt the warmth pull away, and the room became a little chilly. “I have made a choice. And there is nothing for you here. You must forget me, and make your life elsewhere.”

Rosamund finally opened her eyes and raised her head. 

“You may rely upon it.”

She took out the envelope with the hundred pounds and laid it carefully upon the table before turning on her heel.

* * *

In the churchyard at the top of the hill, Rosamund paused under the dappled cover of a beech tree to stand before a pair of headstones. One, weathered, with lichen creeping up, bore her mother’s name, Keturah “Kitty” Poldark, dead these long twenty years. The other was fresh, cleancut, and new, bearing her father’s name, Joshua Poldark. Rosamund laid her hand upon her mother’s grave, then her father’s, saying a silent prayer for each, just as they might have said over her as she slept in her cot. Wafting from within the church was the earnest, gentle rumble of the reverend’s prayer as he guided the congregation through the marriage ceremony. Outside the door, in the shade of the eaves and the wisteria vines, she took a deep breath and entered.

The pews were filled with a small number of Sawle’s distinguished families, and at the front sat her uncle Charles, her cousin Virgil, and her great-aunt Agatha in a towering feathered hat. Before them all stood Fanny in a beautiful new dress of pale silk, ruffled and ribboned, her blonde hair poked through with pearled hairpins. Opposite her stood Elliot, in a dark waistcoat that suited him well. His dark curls were combed away from his face and tied with a black ribbon. The darkness of his clothes brought out the darkness of his eyelashes as they flashed against his pink cheeks. He cut a strong, smart silhouette. Rosamund drew her breath in. 

The reverend finished, Elliot and Fanny were wed, smiling and happy, and Rosamund felt her heart rend in twain, never to be whole again. It was a sorrow beyond any she had felt before.


End file.
